Pen clutched in a slackened hand, his thoughts turned to the black corners of what was his project of inquiry, which it had been for several months. A year, in fact.
The sun began edging to the front door, when it struggled open, and out he stumbled, half purposefully, onto the UNWELCOME mat. His hand halfway into his pocket, his single-ring keychain looped in his index finger, he closed the door and shuffled down the three steps to the sidewalk. The cars parked along the street were subsumed by frost, and his nose first dried, then burned when he began to breathe again.
The floppy, decaying hat was resolute against a frigid wind, his tattered hair clung about his ears but did little to stop the sting. His horizon line shifted about erratically, and he finally noticed that he was smoking a cigarette. Nearly finished, in fact.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
No comments:
Post a Comment